


Leave them Underground

by nostrix



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Horror, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Major Character Injury, Monster of the Week, Rescue, Whump, geralt is soft bc i said so, trapped underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostrix/pseuds/nostrix
Summary: Even with the benefit of hindsight, Jaskier knows he could never have prepared himself for what happened.One moment he’s hiding behind a tree, watching Geralt expertly dispatch wave upon wave of nekkers. The next moment, his face is in the dirt, his footing gone completely as a cold hand grips his ankle from behind andwrenchesback.
Comments: 31
Kudos: 635





	Leave them Underground

**Author's Note:**

> (kinda tired i just wanted to get it posted before i go to bed, please tell me if there's any mistakes lol i haven't read it through)
> 
> title is from the ac syndicate soundtrack since i was listening to it while writing; lyrics have nothing to do with this fic except the word 'underground' but its still a good song

Even with the benefit of hindsight, Jaskier knows he could never have prepared himself for what happened. 

One moment he’s hiding behind a tree, watching Geralt expertly dispatch wave upon wave of nekkers. The next moment, his face is in the dirt, his footing gone completely as a cold hand grips his ankle from behind and _wrenches_ back. 

He lets out a cry of surprise and turns to see a nekker half buried in the ground still, grinning at him with its pale eyes and long-clawed hand still wrapped around his boot, pulling. 

“Fuck- _Geralt_!” The clash of silver and screaming of monsters continues, though, and Jaskier knows if the witcher ran to save him now he’d only be putting them both at risk from the swarm of other creatures he’s already busy with. 

He scrambles at the ground, reaching for tree roots and only finding loose soil crumbling beneath his fingers, and when the grip on his leg suddenly drags him across the ground, he realises he’s being pulled backwards. 

Panic quickly builds in his throat and he frantically kicks out behind him, blindly feeling a hit land, but the monster just growls back hoarsely and digs its claws into his leg harshly, yanking again as it digs itself back into the ground and keeps pulling with a crushing grip on his ankle. 

“Geralt, help me!” His voice is high and desperate as he braces his other foot against the side of the hole to stop himself being pulled down, despite the wrenching pain on his trapped appendage as the nekker tugs harder. 

“ _Jaskier_ -” he hears the worry in the Geralt’s tone even over the ceaseless sounds of fighting. 

But a pale, clawed hand reaches out of the hole and grabs his foot, and he can do nothing but try to protect his face as he is mercilessly dragged underground. 

Jaskier hits the ground flat on his back, and the wind is solidly knocked out of him. 

He chokes with empty lungs until he can finally draw in a full and painful breath, and hears a horrible, gurgling growl emit from the dark somewhere to his left. 

He doesn’t have the time to move out of the way before he feels a weight crash over him, and screams when four claws find their mark on his chest. White hot pain flares from the gashes instantly, and he barely has the sense to bring up his arms defensively across himself before the next swipe comes down fast and slices at his left forearm. 

He cries out again and flings his arms out in a frenzy, trying to catch the claws slashing at him. It’s pure luck that has him grasping at one of the flailing appendages with his left hand, now wet with his own blood. Jaskier pulls at the arm to use it as a shield as he reaches for the knife in his belt – a gift from Geralt – and quickly brings it up into what he hopes isn’t just thin air. 

There’s an antagonised yowl from above him as he feels the knife sink deep into cold flesh, and the weight slides off him to the side, then there’s a shuffling sound before silence again. 

Jaskier scrambles to his feet hurriedly, pulling his arms up in defence and frantically searching for any sign of movement despite the lack of sound, or light to aid his senses. But nothing happens. The attack doesn’t come, and all he can hear is his own harsh breathing and the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. 

He waits a while, just to make sure, and then lets out a shaky breath relief, confident the creature is dead. As the adrenaline begins to leave his veins, the pain of his scratches comes to the forefront of his mind and he hisses, feeling dirt and grit sticking to the blood of his forearm and chest, and he hopes he can leave this place before some kind of infection sets in. 

The dagger won’t be retrieved; he doesn’t want to go about feeling his way for a corpse, and the feeling of it sinking into the nekker still leaves his hand tingling and his stomach roiling. 

Blinking soil and grit out of his eyes – and spitting some from his mouth, too – he squints uselessly before putting his arms out tentatively, searching for the wall. 

Judging by the sound of the chamber when he shuffles his feet slightly, it’s not exactly big – after all, nekkers are usually small creatures – but he didn’t anticipate his head knocking into the low ceiling when he walked close to the side of it. He curses quietly and adjusts his posture, feeling around the walls blindly for an exit and trying not to register the bones his hands brush over, or the gore of cadavers under his boots. 

A very slight breeze felt on his face directs him to search cavern’s sides he’s stood next to just a little higher, and after a moment of prodding at damp soil he feels some of it come loose, giving way to a space just big enough for him to crawl on his knees. Jaskier can’t see, but this might be the only way out and he doesn’t want to wait until any stragglers escape from their fight with Geralt only to meet the bard down here. 

Crawling his way through the narrow tunnel, Jaskier can only pray that he’s heading towards the surface and not further underground. 

At some point, the passage gets thinner, and he is forced to lay flat and drag himself along with his arms and toes. It’s slow progress, and his muscles burn from their awkward angle. He longs to stretch himself out properly, and the more he thinks this the more he realises he has no idea when this tunnel will end. _if_ it will end. 

It gets narrower again, and the earth feels like it’s pressing down on him from all sides. He struggles to gasp in breaths as the terror creeps in again, he can’t focus properly, his wounds hurt to be constantly scraping across the ground, and he can’t tell if his desperate movements are even carrying him anywhere anymore. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how long it takes, but suddenly he’s falling out of the tunnel into another dark space, and he’s flat on his back, heaving dank air into his lungs, trying to get himself under control. 

He’ll be no good to himself if he loses it now. 

He feels tear tracks drying tacky on his face as he sits up and tries to figure out where he is. It’s really no more than a bulge in the tunnel, barely high enough to crouch in properly, and not wide enough if he were to lay down in there, but the worst part is that, when he feels around the sides for the next part of the tunnel, he only finds solid earth, and the same entrance he came from. 

It’s a dead end. 

Jaskier feels dread settle heavy in his stomach as fresh tears escape his eyes, hopelessness filling every part of his being. _This is is, then,_ he thinks, _this is where I die, alone in the dark, nothing but food for the worms_. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s down there for, trying to claw at the soil over him and only filling the hole he’s in with more soil, the loose dirt taking up more space than the naturally compact ceiling and walls, if they could be called that. 

It’s not long after he’s closed his eyes to rest that a shuffling, scratching sound jerks him to consciousness. At first he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him, but that is proved wrong when the sound grows louder, until something flings itself from the tunnel entrance into the tiny space. 

Jaskier screeches as he registers the angry gurgling, the scent of rotting flesh, and knows he’ll probably be killed by this creature; his weapon is gone, and his strength has left him during his time underground. 

“Fuck- get back, you ugly beast!” He yells, angry at the monster and furious at fate itself - _he couldn’t even die in peace?_ \- and he kicks out viciously with his feet again, pushing himself back against the soil wall for leverage. 

Jagged claws land on his calves and he cried out in pain, but forces himself to keep blindly attacking the creature in desperation. 

He yells as he struggles, trying to find the strength in himself to keep going, trying to draw false bravado against this evil if it is to be his last stand. 

He thinks he hears more sound over the monster’s snarling and his yelling, more shouting and deep thrumming sounds, but that could just be his own ears playing tricks after so long in silence. 

But then the noise is indistinguishable. 

“ _Jaskier!_ ” 

Jaskier’s heart soars in hope. 

“Geralt!” He almost sobs in relief to hear that gruff voice, and realises that it is indeed the sound of digging he heard, sounding deep and bassy from where he is underground. “Geralt, help me quick, I don’t- I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off!” He cries, feeling his burning muscles faltering by the second. 

“Just hold on for me Jaskier, _please_ , I’m nearly-” 

Jaskier doesn’t hear what he has to say because he screams in agony at the feeling of teeth clamping down on his shin. Sharp teeth bite through the leather of his boot easily to tear at the flesh beneath. He tries to jerk back but the grip is unrelenting. Blood trickles warm and wet down his leg, and he can’t think anything except _fuck I’m going to be eaten alive_ \- 

There’s a roar from above, and he’s almost blinded by the light streaming in as the ground overhead is broken through. A flash of silver is accompanied by a sickening _squelch_ , then the nekker goes limp and falls away with a final thud. 

Jaskier feels a cold, glorious draft of air from where the light is coming from, and he gulps in lungful's of it greedily, pain still wracking his body but relief sharp and intoxicating. He barely registers Geralt’s voice telling him not to move too much, barely having regained composure by the time the witcher returns with the end of a rope. 

The other end is apparently tied to a tree, as when Geralt climbs down into the hole to gather Jaskier into his arms, he pulls himself up on the rope with the bard clinging weakly to his front. 

It’s sunset when he’s brought to the surface at last. The light is so vivid that Jaskier promptly vomits by his feet, but he thinks he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. 

Geralt talks to him, but Jaskier’s feeling incredibly fuzzy, so he just carries the smaller man carefully towards Roach. He wraps his bad leg quickly for the journey, that being the most profusely bleeding injury, before settling behind him on the saddle and riding for the closest village. Through the fog that exhaustion and adrenaline left behind, Jaskier can hear Geralt’s voice, gentle and soothing in his ear throughout the journey, talking quietly to him to calm him down and humming when he runs out of words to say. It’s nice, and he begins to feel less jittery as they ride further away from the woodlands and the nekker nest. 

It isn’t far; it’s the same village that put out the contract for the nekkers plaguing their lands, and Jaskier is grateful not for the first time for Geralt’s strength when he effortlessly lifts him off Roach and helps him stumble into what turns out to be the herbalist’s hut. 

He’s more than grateful when he’s placed down on a soft but firm surface, exhaustion already threatening to overcome him. He almost drops off to the sounds of voices talking quietly murmuring, but is brought back to the present when Geralt calls his name. 

“Where are you hurt?” He asks the bard. The blood points to some obvious injuries, but he doesn’t want to discount the possibility of anything hidden. 

“Everywhere. I’m just one big bruise.” He exhales sleepily, but at the look Geralt gives him he continues. “Ankle. Scratched my arm, chest too. Bastard had damn sharp claws.” It takes a lot of energy to talk, and the words are less articulated than normal, but he does his best. 

His clothes are carefully removed so Geralt can access the wounds, a couple of bowls laid out beside him as well as some thread and bandages. Jaskier allows him to work in silence, too tired to serenade him in his usual style. 

“Geralt,” he begins, letting his arm be manoeuvred so the white-haired man can begin cleaning blood and dirt from the gashes. 

Geralt hums in response, still focused on the cloth he’s wiping gently over his skin. 

“Thank you.” 

Jaskier eyes slip closed peacefully soon after, and doesn’t see the smile that graces the witcher’s lips. 

“Sleep, bard. I’ll look after you.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! anything you want to see more of? something you would've done differently?   
> thanks for reading! comments and kudos appreciated <3


End file.
